


books, nooks, and crooks (keep your eyes open remix)

by templemarker



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-06 09:06:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4215843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/templemarker/pseuds/templemarker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His role was not to interfere with the Adventures, and therefore, neither was the housekeeper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	books, nooks, and crooks (keep your eyes open remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WingedFlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingedFlight/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Concerning the Daily Maintenance of a Large Country House](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/123387) by Winged Flight. 



_His role was not to interfere with the Adventures, and therefore, neither was the housekeeper._

Perhaps one of the most memorable Adventures in Ethel Macready's life was when the Prime Minister came to visit the house. It was part of his regional tour of preserved Estates, the Professor's house being a particularly notable example, and as part of the arrangement the Minister was staying in the Blue Room. The silver had been polished to a gleam, the china buffeted until the ancient roses crenallating the gold-trimmed border seemed ageless, and the Minister missed supper. 

He was, however, present for breakfast, bearing a ruddy tan and a perplexed look. Breakfast was a quiet affair, the Professor attempting to make conversation, at which he was rather inept; and the Minister trailing off sentences into dreamy silence between sips of tea. 

Ethel prepared a flask of ice-water to take with him (the flush did not die down) and a placket of cold ham and cheese, which he absentmindedly handed off to a subordinate. At the steps of the front entrance, as pro forma felicitations and farewells were being made, dolefully copied down by the reporter tasked to the tour, the Minister cut off his staff member abruptly. "That book of paintings," he said slowly, "open in my room. It's a bit queer, don't you think? The scene of the tropical island. What is its provenance?"

"I've no idea," the Professor said cheerfully, his inkstained hands shoved into his pockets. "I believe it was Great-Aunt Ava's--she was known for touring the southerly climes--but the book has lain open there for several decades pleasantly enough."

"I see," said the Minister, when he clearly did not. He kept throwing glances back to the house as he was shuffled away by his staff. 

+++

Clara Bonny was some sort of writer, or scholar. Or researching assistant. It was never quite _clear_ what her work was, exactly, which was sensible enough has she had been the Professor's pupil at one time and seemed to have gained not only an education, but a mannerism as well. 

It was maddening to watch them have a conversation. "Have you thought about--" Clara would say, immediately interrupted by the Professor, "Oh yes, of course, of course, but that has since been gainsayed by Feynman. Quite a jocular fellow, I must say, though I challenge his notions upon--"

"Oh, of course you do, yes," Clara would say, approvingly. "They would hardly be compatible, you know, not if we're postulating the Many Worlds theory--"

"And bugger all else," the Professor would say, and the both of them would laugh as if anything they said made one moment of sense. 

It was enough to put Ethel to her drink. She clutched her small glass of sherry in one hand, standing in the kitchen as Cook prepared afternoon tea. It was just as well Clara was staying in the Gold room, an entire wing away from the Professor's rooms. She would dislike knowing that the Professor's heart could be carried away by a pair of rosy lips and admiring blue eyes. 

Though given the Professor, it would more likely come down to her wits than her looks. 

At tea one afternoon, as Ethel brought in the service (having dismissed the maid for the afternoon to help her father at the farm) only to find Clara and the Professor sat cozily before the fire, a bit too close for public eyes. Not that the Professor ever took guests regularly, but it was the _politesse_ of the matter. 

"You have done it, haven't you? You've seen the--" Clara asked, breathless, clutching her hands together as though they might fly away if let loose.

"Perhaps," replied the Professor, with his mysterious smile. "Tell me, did you see the--"

"The trees, oh! The trees," Clara said, "and the many pools beneath them. I do not even know _how_ \--"

"It is never the how, my dear, it is often merely the what," the Professor said, taking her hand into his and examining the ring on her left finger. Ethel personally found it to be garish and rather plain, a solid yellow band not unlike the cheap plastic tat sold at the market in the town. 

The Professor's face fell white, then flushed red. "Wherever did you get this," he murmured, leaning down further to inspect the ring, though never touching it himself. 

"Why, I could never tell you," Clara said, sounding puzzled. "Only it was sitting next to my brush and mirror when I woke this morning. I thought perhaps the maid had left it from y--" She stopped suddenly, cheeks pinking. "From somewhere, I suppose. It fit perfectly when I put it on."

"Fascinating," the Professor said, still holding her hand in his though not looking at Clara herself. "These were lost--but of course, He could have created more, and how were we ever to know?"

"A family heirloom?" Clara asked, tentative for the first time in the Professor's company. 

At that, he blinked and did look up at her, something flashing in his eyes and a sad smile creasing his face. "Of a sort, my dear. Of a sort."

Ethel, who had quite enough of snooping and was thoroughly displeased at being so rudely ignored, purposefully clattered the spoons against the silver tray. The pair jumped, and Clara pulled her hair back, ruffled. The Professor smiled genuinely, as though he'd known she was there all along. 

"Tea is served," Ethel said. 

+++

It was only when the postman brought a box into house but did not appear again for two days that Ethel began to worry. Whatever Adventures happened to people, they were rarely gone for more than a moment, an evening at most. A day was an anomaly; two was an aberration. The Professor merely waved her concern away, mentioning only Ivy's name. That was true--they had all thought Ivy on her planned vacation to France, only to discover her three days later sitting against the Northern wing's upstairs linen closet, that look in her eyes that always spoke of otherworldly adventures. 

Still, it was unsettling and rare. Two days nearly to the minute he had disappeared, the postman reappeared in the kitchen. He had some unseen momentum and went straight into Cook, who had flour in her hands and on her apron. The collision sent poufs of white into the hair and covered everything, including Ethel, with a fine white color. 

"Mr. Davenport," Ethel said with grave disapproval, "why are you carrying that fish in your hands?"

The postman looked down at the large green-and-gold fish still clutched to his body, and with eyes of wonder he said, "I have been at sea for a year." His uniform, though unfortunately stained, was as crisp and fitted as it had been those two days ago, bringing in the box and stopping the in the kitchen for an iced tart. 

"I see," Ethel said. "Cook, perhaps you could take the fish from him? I shall see if the Professor would like it for dinner. To which you are quite welcome to attend, Mr. Davenport. The Professor does enjoy the company of those who have..Adventurers."

The postman, dazed as he handed the fish to Cook (who held it as gingerly with her apron as if it were a bomb), said non sequitor, "Those Telmarines, they're a strange folk. They always mark directions by the Evenstar, but I know that star doesn't exist!" Mr Davenport had an enthusiasm for astronomy. "Though I saw it," he said uneasily. 

"Time for the port," Ethel said grimly, helping the postman to his feet. He was very unsteady, as if unused to dry land. "Or perhaps the whisky."

+++

Ethel had never once gone on her own Adventure, though she had allowed Ivy to decorate her room with seashells, and Margaret to disappear off to the South wing on her tea break. She'd even allowed Cook to tell of her adventure, though the sherry was assuredly required to get through that conversation. 

It wasn't that Ethel disapproved of Adventures; no, only that they held such unpredictable consequences, from the profound to the ridiculous and everything in between. She and the house had come into accord, she thought, and they afforded one another respect. Ethel would deal with the aftermath of whatever Adventures the house saw fit to provide its inhabitants. 

The Professor never indicated whether he suspected this bargain had been struck, but though he explored while she endured, they both adopted the habit of comparing notes every week at their upkeep meeting. At the end of it, Ethel suspected she knew as much as anyone about the house, enough that she agreed to begin giving tours, which the Professor had been trying to beg off on her for years. 

Often other Manors and Estates would write to her, begging her to consider a position at a larger house, with more pay, with greater authority. But to each one she sent a terse, though polite, reply. 

_Thank you for your kind offer, but I must decline,_ she would write. _I find I am quite at home here._


End file.
